


EVEN AN IDIOT CAN USE A CROSSBOW

by ffelweed



Category: World of Warcraft
Genre: even more old warcraft stories!, this time it’s my undead hunter llywelya’s turn, tw for suicide and death of a child
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-12
Updated: 2020-08-12
Packaged: 2021-03-06 06:08:38
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,389
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25858729
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ffelweed/pseuds/ffelweed
Summary: In the days when the Scourge ravaged Lordaeron, the standing army was not enough. Most of the soldiers had, after all, been recruited into the ranks to fight trolls and orcs—not corpses that kept coming no matter how many arrows you pinned in them or how many times you slashed their stomachs. Militias formed, farmers and merchants that had some small talent with a blade or a bow or a pitchfork, and they died alongside the soldiers of the realm.
Kudos: 1





	EVEN AN IDIOT CAN USE A CROSSBOW

**Author's Note:**

> it took me 3 weeks to find a copy of this somewhere since blizz nuked the forums again in 2019. this was probably my favourite story i ever wrote for the emerald dream forums!

In the days when the Scourge ravaged Lordaeron, the standing army was not enough. Most of the soldiers had, after all, been recruited into the ranks to fight trolls and orcs—not corpses that kept coming no matter how many arrows you pinned in them or how many times you slashed their stomachs. Militias formed, farmers and merchants that had some small talent with a blade or a bow or a pitchfork, and they died alongside the soldiers of the realm.

Llywelya Owens, the only child without magic in a family of mages, joined the militia against her husband’s wishes. He was a silk merchant from the capital, a little old, a little fat, and a little overly kind, but she cared for him. She was the fourth daughter of two Kirin Tor mages from Tirisfal Glades, a little cold, a little stern, and a little wild, but he cared for her as well. Together, Gareth and Llywelya Owens had a single daughter, six and sunny as was possible during a war with the walking dead. They’d called her Aderyn and taken her to Brill, where she could grow up roaming the nearby woods instead of alleys and shops.

The three lived a quiet life, despite Llywelya’s siblings becoming strong mages who attended fancy parties with elves and nobles. Gareth’s shop was well enough known, and at least her sisters bought their silk from within the family. They wanted for little. And, though they could have easily bought their meat, Llywelya often found herself providing for her family in that way.

The woods were a place she enjoyed. The hustle and bustle of their shop and home left her tired, feeling out of sorts and not wholly herself; she escaped outside to find herself again, to find the quiet that pushed the anxiety out of her mind. She hunted alone, though many others in the village preferred to bring a dog or a brother with them. Just her and her bow, two companions in a silent conversation.

A bow, she had once told Gareth, was an extension of yourself. The drawing of the string coincides with the drawing of a breath, and loosing an arrow takes your air with it. She did not believe in the Light, not really; her religion was the release of shooting, the dull thunk of an arrow landing in wood, in soft flesh, in whatever her target might be.

She never missed. It was a sort of magic of her own, she supposed—her sisters brought fire to life, illusions, conjurations. Llywelya brought a good and clean death, a swift arrow flying from the brush or the trees. She’d killed her parents’ disappointment in her lack of magic talent with pure prowess with a bow, seduced Gareth in much the same way. It was, in the end, the one good thing about herself.

And so, when the Scourge tromped its way through her beloved Tirisfal, Llywelya picked up her bow and made her way to join the militia. Gareth had cried, Aderyn had pouted and hidden, but the archer simply kissed them both and promised she would be back soon to teach Aderyn how to use her new bow.

She was not.

The word came back to Gareth only a few days later: We regret to inform you that Llywelya Owens’ squad was overwhelmed by the undead, and all that were sent out are presumed to be dead. Mrs. Owens volunteered, along with a small group of other militia members, to attempt a covert operation in the hopes to remove a major enemy from the field. They failed, despite the best efforts of everyone involved.

We are so sorry for your loss.

Llywelya’s shambling corpse was, of course, turned to other purposes. Life—or, rather, unlife—as a member of the Scourge was dull, not that she had any true control over what she did. Held in thrall, the ranger ravaged the countryside with her fellow dead, making her way towards unknown objectives, following whatever vague orders existed inside the remnants of her mind: eat, kill, destroy. Easy enough.

It was not until she was freed—and bless the Dark Lady, for that—that Llywelya turned back to the place that had once been her home. Time, she found, was mutable in undeath. The ebb and flow she had once known intimately had shifted; she often found herself staring out at the world for hours on end, unaware that any time had passed at all. As such, she could not be sure how long she had been away. A week? A month? A year? Little matter, she supposed. Each moment was the loosing of a bow, now. Perpetual quiet, nothing but her own thoughts to echo around her.

Death, it turned out, was not as bad as she had thought. It suited her.

Her home on the outskirts of Brill, however, did not. A small fire remained within, one of the few holdouts still staying in a forest quickly becoming claimed by the dead. A small blessing; had her husband the sense to flee, she may never have found them. Even from outside, the simple noises of life threatened to overwhelm her—since when had breathing become so loud? But the ranger pushed onwards, bow unstrung on her back, and carefully opened the door.

Everything was how she remembered it, even down to Gareth holding the crossbow she had gingerly placed in his hands. He would use it well, she had promised. It took no true talent, not really. He just had to point and shoot. Easy, right? She’d shown him how to use it with a small smile, her prejudice against the weapon easing his fears. At the time, he had not pointed it at her.

“Gareth?” Her voice echoed in the room, almost drowned out by the crackling of the fire. A fire, she now realized, that was not where it should be. The fireplace was empty. It was, instead, the bed they had once shared that was burning.

In her husband’s lap, held close to his chest, their daughter. Still—too still, for one alive. On the floor, an empty vial. Another gift she had left her husband to assuage his fears, the belladonna extract she occasionally used to coat her arrows.

On his face, a trembling smile. The bolt—when had he loaded the bolt?—pierced her raised hand. Left, the hand she used to hold her bow and steady her arrow. “Gareth, what are you doing?”

“You’re not—“ Smoke in the room caused him to cough. “You’re not taking us. Not like you took her.”

“Gareth, I’m right here!”

“Llyw is dead! Everyone’s—everyone is dead. I won’t become like them. I won’t let you take us!”

Another bolt, though this time he missed. Llywelya cursed inwardly. She’d _told_ him how to aim the damn thing.

“Gareth, please calm down. Everything is fine. Just let me see Addy, alright?”

“Why? So you can make her a freak like you? You’re not my wife! You’re not her! You might have her face or her memories or whatever you think you have, but you are not my Llyw!”

She dropped her hand. The fire from the bed was already spreading, the smoke hiding what happened next from even her altered eyes. But she could hear it. The ranger left her burning home behind.

What they had started to call the Undercity was anything but bustling. It was just the way Llywelya liked it, really. Talking proved difficult, these days. Emotions rarely pierced the haze of death, but each time she opened her mouth they threatened to overwhelm her. When she spoke, it was choppy and quiet, an annoyance even to some of her fellow undead.

“And the hand?”

“It’s ruined. The bolt went straight though the palm; you’re not going to have any strength in these fingers. And that hole isn’t going to go away. I can get you a new one, if you want.”

“Will the fingers be precise?”

“Not as nicely as these ones would’ve been. The original parts always seem to take better. You’ll lose some control, some strength. It won’t be the same.”

“No.”

“No new hand?”

“No new hand.” Llywelya stood slowly, ignoring the creaking coming from her bones. “Even an idiot can use a crossbow.”


End file.
